


a call you can't answer

by viscrael



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, hmmmm gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2019-03-30 18:36:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13957551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscrael/pseuds/viscrael
Summary: He glances again surreptitiously, curious to see the prince’s soul mark. No one in their party has even tried to bring the topic of soul mates up, and Rohan doesn’t mind that in the least, but he can’t help the way his eye is drawn to the mark presented to him now. Black letters, as most are, but bold. Sloppy handwriting etched into skin, spanning the space of his wrist. Even in the light of the lantern, Rohan can make out the name.SVEN KOSMIMA.His stomach drops.





	a call you can't answer

**Author's Note:**

> no1 but riley reads this BUT on the off chance that someone else is the basics r that rohans birth name was sven but he changed it after his soul mate and all his found family basically Died Tragically 
> 
> yeah.

They stop at an inn after a full day of travel.

The argument they made was that they needed to conserve energy. _No point in wearing ourselves out_ , a good night’s rest could only help. It wasn’t like they couldn’t have kept travelling and set up camp after dark—they had done it before, and they’ll definitely have to do it again before this escapade is over and done with—but maybe they were just tired enough to give into small luxuries.

They settle on the cheapest inn in town. It’s a nice place, considering the price. Not too crowded. Quiet. But that might just be because the town itself is quiet, almost eerily so; Rohan isn’t used to cities that aren’t loud, aren’t beating you over the side of the head with their presence, aren’t bombarding and vying for your attention. Dock cities, where he spent most of his time on land both before and after the Retribution, are full of people and in turn full of noise, and violence, and pockets to pick. But this is not a dock city, if the near empty streets when they arrived and the scarce, interspersed buildings say anything.

The inn is empty expect for the four of them and the woman behind the counter. Zam does the talking. She gets them two rooms, four beds in total: Zam and Kikkue in one room, Rohan and Chalcedony in the other. At the top of the stairwell, Zam hands the key out to Rohan, dangling it over his open palm with a smile.

“We can regroup in the morning,” she says, dropping the key.

They all say their goodnights and disappear into their separate rooms. It’s only then that it becomes uncomfortable, the silence following Rohan and Chal into the room, replacing the air where Zam and Kikkue had been acting as some kind of buffer. It’s always uncomfortable when it’s them. Rohan doesn’t know what it is—if it’s because he’s closed off, or because _Chal_ is, or if it’s because Chal’s devoted, or because _Rohan_ isn’t—or any other number of things. Whatever it is, it makes the room thick with discomfort, the air stifling, movements between them stilted. So Rohan deals with it the way he knows best. He ignores it.

There’s a lantern burning on the nightstand in between the beds. Rohan sets his bag down on the bed nearest the door, a silent proclamation that he’s claimed it, and slides his boots off. It’s not even ten yet, but he’s ready to pass out. He’ll wake up on his own before the sun comes up, but the hours he _will_ get will be heaven, even with termite-bitten bedsheets and a near stranger sleeping in the same room with him. He admits he’s not upset with their decision to stay here.

He swings his legs over onto the bed. “What time do you want to get up?”

From his position sitting on his own bed, Chal startles like he’d forgotten Rohan was there. He catches himself, returning immediately to a neutral expression. Or at least an attempt at one. “Zam and Kikkue said to regroup once we’re awake,” he says. “So…maybe eight would be alright.”

Rohan nods. He’ll be up before that.

They start to return to themselves again, back to ignoring, getting ready for bed in peace, when something catches Rohan’s eye. A black smudge on Chal’s wrist, for the first time glove-free—or, if it’s not the first time he’s taken them off, it’s the first time Rohan’s ever thought to notice.

Anyone would know what that black smudge signifies: a soul mark. The bodily imprint of a person’s soul mate. Someone made for you. _Just_ for you. Handcrafted by the gods.

He glances again surreptitiously, curious to see the prince’s soul mark. No one in their party has even tried to bring the topic of soul mates up, and Rohan doesn’t mind that in the least, but he can’t help the way his eye is drawn to the mark presented to him now. Black letters, as most are, but bold. Sloppy handwriting etched into skin, spanning the space of his wrist. Even in the light of the lantern, Rohan can make out the name.

_SVEN KOSMIMA._

His stomach drops.

Chal catches him looking—staring, now. Rohan averts his eyes quickly, trying to ignore the way he knows Chal’s watching him, no doubt curious why Rohan was staring, or why he turned away once caught. He’s never done that before. This is new, and he knows Chal knows it is. He slides under the covers and rolls over to face the door.

It’s a juvenile tactic. _If I can’t see you, you can’t see me._ But going through its motions helps him, somewhat. Or at least it helps him pretend his heart isn’t trying to escape his body, his pulse isn’t racing like he’d run a marathon, his instincts aren’t telling him that the only next move is to leave here as soon as he can and never see Chal again.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he doesn’t leave.

Chal will cover his wrist back up in the morning when they wake. He’ll slide his gloves back on and envelope a dead name in white silk, like a final burial, the coffin of Rohan’s old identity. An odd place for eternal rest, indefinite sleep. He will pull the fabric over his fingers, his knuckles, his palm and the back of his hand, finally the wrist, and what is left unconcealed by that garment will be covered in his jacket sleeve, long and all encompassing. No one will see it.

No one will know.

Except—

Rohan’s back burns now: a tingling, an old resurfacing of fire. The burn scar at the small of his back lights up like he’s been called towards something. It’s an odd feeling. It’s not quite what he felt the day he met Markas, but it’s not as intense as the fire he hired to scorch that memory away. It isn’t soft, isn’t cradling, like a fireplace and hot tea, the way meeting Markas was, nor is it a tally mark of bodily pain, a dent in his psychological-to-physical ratio for suffering. It is—a sign of some kind, or maybe his atoms responding to a call he can’t answer.

Because he _can’t_ answer this. He knows this as he stares at the door in the low light of the still-burning lantern, as he waits to hear the shuffling of bedsheets that will mean Chal has turned over and gone to sleep, that means he is safe again. He can’t answer this. He had someone. He had someone already.

It was hard enough the first time, to be made _for_ someone else.

He cannot do it again.

He thinks this. Repeats this. Drills it into his brain as he stares at the door, still waiting for the inevitable sound of true sleep. The lantern is finally blown out, the light disappearing with a swift puff of breath, air, but the burn at his back continues. Sheets shuffling. Chal is going to sleep. He is no doubt under his covers, rolled over, eyes closed.

No one can see it here, in the dark, not even Chal. No one will know.

And maybe Rohan would be content with that, if not for the impression of those words on his eyelids when he closes them.

Sven Kosmima.

On Prince Chalcedony’s wrist.

How many times has Chal looked at that mark? In his lifetime, in a day? How many times has he imagined the owner of such a name, in repulsion or fear or delighted anticipation? How often has he hoped he would find the stranger Sven Kosmima, or begged Alimazi that he would never? Rohan knows nothing about Chal’s opinions on soul mates, let alone his hopes, his fears in regards to his own. He doesn’t know what Chal thinks Sven will be like, if Chal even thinks of Sven at all.

But he must, Rohan thinks. He must think of Sven. Must _want,_ to some degree, the person that was made for him. That’s what almost everybody wants. That’s what a prince should—would— _deserves_ to want.

He must have an image of his soul mate in his mind by now, after waiting his life to find him. Rohan doesn’t know what that image is. But he knows that whatever it is, he can’t be it.

His scar aches, like protesting a movement, like muscles do when used for the first time in a long time—like people do when they want but cannot have. His body wants something: to respond. To give in. To be made for someone else. To allow himself to be made for someone else.

Sven Kosmima was made for someone else. A prince.

_Rohan_ was not.

Chal’s breathing has evened out; he’s asleep finally. In the dark, Rohan blinks at the door across from him, the dark wood, its knots indecipherable in the pitch black, scanning over its frame as he listens to the steady breathing of a stranger behind him.

The tingling continues.

The fire has not finished resurfacing.


End file.
